


A Stab of Happiness

by ivarara



Series: TF stuffs [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, babys first tf fic, the angst gets fixed tho dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25557850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivarara/pseuds/ivarara
Summary: Drift's still getting used to it.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock & Wing
Series: TF stuffs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852066
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	A Stab of Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> @notdeezy on tumblr gave me the hc that drift is very picky/wary about people touching him so i just HAD to go off
> 
> find me on tumblr! @roughkick

The first time Wing tried to show him physical affection, he bristled and hissed like a cybercat.

A nice day spent aimlessly wandering the City and basking in the glow of the sunlight always leaves Wing feeling good. Drift thinks otherwise: it feels like everyone is staring at him, judging him, hating him. The bustle of mechs in the City is unnerving. The music is too loud. The sunlight left his plates uncomfortably warm. It’s too bright.

He complains loudly about it to Wing the entire time.

“When are we leaving?” he blurts ungraciously as they hover outside a shop. 

Wing looks taken aback. “You want to return to your quarters already?”

“Yes,” Drift snaps. “I hate it out here.” His armor ruffles irritably, like a cat would fluff its fur when angry.

“Oh,” Wing utters. “I thought some fresh air and time outside would do you some good.”

“I am not some animal that needs fresh air and exercise to live,” he seethes. 

“Technically you do,” Wing counters. “That is why we spar daily, and so on.”

“That’s different,” he retorts. 

“It’s enrichment,” Wing shrugs with a slag-eating smirk.

While he loves that smirk (but would never admit it), it only invokes his ire in this moment. 

“I’ll go back myself if you don’t want to come along,” he states. Quickly, he adds on. “Not that I need you to escort me. I can do it myself.”

Wing hums bemusedly at him. “Fine, fine. We can go back.”

The both turn to head back to their quarters, milling between mechs in the street. 

As they approach the gardens outside the building, he feels something brush his hand. He looks down and notices Wing’s index finger trying to loop with his own. He snatches his hand away, folding his arms across his chest with a huff.

He sees Wing smile sadly out of the corner of his optic. 

⁂

The second time is just as unexpected.

Wing knocks him off-kilter with a well-timed kick to his leg, making it collapse out from underneath his body and leaving him to crumple to the floor. He’s sure he’s displaying how caught off-guard he is, judging by the amused smirk on Wing’s faceplates.

“I believe I’ve won this round,” he preens, extending a hand down to Drift.

Drift pouts, lower lip sticking out petulantly. He accepts the hand offered to him, clasping it firmly and hauling himself up. Wing does his part by hefting him, easily done with one limb.

However, once Drift’s on his pedes again, Wing uses the grip on his hand to drag him in towards himself. Drift goes with it, unaware of his intentions, quickly figuring it out once Wing wraps his other arm around his neck and tucks his chin on his pauldron.

His first instinct is to act out--this gives Wing access to his neck cabling, the weakest part of him. But then another thought interjects-- this is _Wing_ , he wouldn’t harm him out of malice.

So...what is he doing, then?

Drift stiffly stands in place as Wing seems to settle into his new position.

“You could reciprocate, you know,” Wing murmurs with a smile.

Still, Drift stands stock still, servos hanging dumbly in the air.

“Do you not…?” Wing pulls back and, though he is wont to admit it, he misses his presence, his warmth and comfort. “Do you know what a hug is, dear?” Wing seems baffled.

Drift nods curtly, optics looking away from the other mech. He stubbornly avoids Wing’s gaze.

“Then why didn’t you react?” Wing tilts his head curiously.

His armor ruffles again as the question sinks in. Why didn’t he?

Deep down, he knows why. It has been so long since he’s been touched out of affection that his natural instinct is to lash out if someone so much as reaches for him. The streets of Rodion were not kind to him. The experiences had engrained a negative association with touching. Gentleness is not a thing he is familiar with.

Instead, he blurts something else out. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he shrugs off Wing’s concern.

Wing looks at him knowingly; the mech probably sees right through his guise of aloofness. 

“Dear Drift,” he hums. “You’d have to actively attempt to harm me to actually do so,” he finishes with a chuckle. “And even then, I’d catch you before anything landed,” Wing winks.

Drift stares at him for a moment before physically shaking his head to rattle himself out of his thoughts. Wing smiles at him warmly before patting his pauldron and turning away. “Go use the washracks. You trained hard today.”

⁂

The third time, he’s far more affable to it.

He’s been in the City for cycles now. He’s picked up on Wing’s touchiness, the way he has to physically show his affection and joy. He has long since muffled the frightened instinct to react harshly when touched-- at least, by Wing. Other mechs are a different story.

It’s a rare sight to see Wing out of sorts. Typically, he is peppy and excitable, veritably bouncing off the walls. Today, he’s even-tempered and calm and it seems...wrong.

The red-and-white mech pads into their quarters evenly, not sparing a glance around the room. Drift sits on their couch, idly reading a datapad when he notices the mech come in. He glances up at him, surprised that Wing doesn’t return his gaze. Stiffly, the other mech steps into the next room.

Drift ponders going after him. It’d be the…’kind’ thing to do. He sets the datapad aside and rises, stretching out stiff joints with pops and crackles. Silently, he makes his way to where Wing had gone. 

In the room, Wing stares blankly out one of the windows looking over the City’s skyline. His face is mournful, something Drift decides does not fit him well. Cautiously, he steps further in, intentionally brushing his servo against the doorway to let Wing know he is coming.

Drift steps up to the window beside the other mech, quietly offering comfort. He doesn’t know what to do with his servos, so he crosses his arms across his chest awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” Wing says after a pause. “It is rude of me to not greet you when entering our quarters.” He sighs.

Drift shrugs. “Don’t beat yourself up ‘bout it.” He looks to the other mech. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Wing heaves another sigh. “I am just…” he struggles for a word, “frustrated, I suppose.”

“By what? Someone?” He stiffens, ready to go confront whoever had done this to Wing.

“I suppose,” Wing admits. “Dai Atlas. He’s being very unrelenting about your freedoms. I tried talking him into letting you have a bit more independence, but he is immovable when he makes up his mind.”

Once again, Drift shrugs off the words. “I’m not surprised,” he grunts.

“Yes, but,” Wing wrings his servos together, “it is not fair to keep you here against your will. I want you to experience things, still. You shouldn’t need to be eyed cautiously by the citizens when you go out.”

“That’s how things are, I guess.”

“That does not mean I have to like it,” Wing pouts. He goes back to staring out the window, unfocused.

An idea formulates in his processor. Act on your instinct, for once.

Tepidly, he reaches one arm out and wraps it around Wing’s pauldron, careful to avoid his turbines. He gives a slight tug towards himself. Wing looks at him, confused, before something shows on his face that he understands what Drift’s doing, going with the motion.

Once pulled in, Drift wraps his other arm around Wing, holding him tight. It feels...awkward, too intimate, but he knows that Wing needs the comfort. He keeps the other mech close in his arms.

“Thank you,” Wing whispers into his neck cabling. “I know how hard it was to do that.”

“Not hard,” Drift snorts. “Just awkward.”

Wing chuckles, tucking in closer.


End file.
